


Salvatorem Magica Mundi: Part 1 - Umbra

by ImpulseFunWritinAnon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-20 09:35:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30002886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpulseFunWritinAnon/pseuds/ImpulseFunWritinAnon
Summary: Harry Potter, having embraced Death, struggles to live.Death, unknown to Harry Potter, has plans.[Archive warnings and tags to be updated as story progresses.]
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [lucian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucian/pseuds/lucian). Thank you so much!
> 
> I will be posting weekly/bi-weekly. Six chapters for Part 1.
> 
> Warnings (and translations) to be posted in the end notes of each chapter, as needed. 
> 
> Please enjoy.

There is a clamour and ruckus on this breezy Monday morning, north of pleasant and green Lincoln’s Inn Fields. 

Normally, the chatter of the residents walking their dogs is minimal in volume, those going on their morning jogs tending to keep to themselves. Sometimes the elderly will go in groups, keeping their daily gossip to a minimum to save their breath. It is usually a temperate nine degrees, the people used to the sun warming up the place about mid-afternoon. Normally, the hustle and bustle is situated just outside of this little comfort zone north of the Thames. After all, this is what attracted the residents to settle here: quiet, calm, and generally free of that awful traffic while getting the benefits of living in London. It’s rather nice.

But no, today, there is indeed quite a clamour and ruckus north of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and the sound is near-deafening.

Gentlemen in odd, ill-fitting clothes and gaudily dressed women conversing animatedly to the point of public nuisance have situated themselves outside on the sidewalks of the ordinary Georgian terraced houses, complete with heaps of parchment strewn along the pavement, quills (why anybody would want to use  _ a quill _ in this day and age was beyond anybody), comically big and antiquated-looking cameras, and lots of wooden sticks being waved around. The locals have complained to the Metropolitan Police and some members of the Islington Council, leading to the mayor of the borough having to intervene amidst the chaos of unhappy residents unable to go about their daily activities, feeling quite inconvenienced and disturbed by those odd people that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

“For the time being,” the Mayor of Islington politely suggested at the angry residents gathered around the gazebo at the heart of the Fields (the police were busying themselves with dissolving the strange crowd to the north, only for them to come back just as quick), “use the surrounding sidewalks and keep well away from the north until the issue can be resolved, thank you,” only to be met by the unhappy sound of locals grumbling their many grievances with the lack of action like a particularly bad Parliament session. The mayor resolutely slinked away without his entourage, lest he make another scene for the people to complain about, and headed to a nearby pub for a drink.

Sometimes one or two of the strangers in the north would scream out “Over here!” and make for the direction of the voice, alarming every one of the strangely-dressed people (some in galoshes and suits; others in dresses and odd high-heels with long, colorful socks; it varied wildly), resulting in a near-stampede and a tumult of journalists raising up cameras and quills and sticks. Sometimes they found whatever it was they were looking for, if only for a few seconds—the resulting disappointed groans of the audience resonated through the small area—although many times, it seemed, they were unable to.

And the strangers stayed, all the way through the week’s end. And the residents grudgingly stayed well-away from the north sidewalks; the ones that lived in the northern terrace, however, complained louder than ever for a few days before giving in, and, gritting their teeth, accepted this inconvenience, pushing past the strange folk to continue their daily activities. 

The peculiar lot meanwhile continued to chatter like delighted children about the dawn of a new age, a victory for a world the general populace have no knowledge of, and the odd bustle of back-and-forth pacing along the northern terrace sidewalks, looking for something—somebody—only to act utterly, almost devastatingly, disappointed when they didn’t see what they wanted to see.

The residents (and the local news) made their own conclusions: “They are nutters. They are mad. They signal the utter deterioration of our society.”

And one Harry Potter would whole-heartedly agree with them, if he could.

Sitting on the windowsill, eyes tired, Harry Potter looked out the window from upon the second floor where he once stayed with his best friend one fateful summer. 

With a weary sigh, he said:  _ “God. They are still out there.” _

_ I think I am losing my mind. _


	2. Salvatorem Magica Mundi

_“...who loved death above all, who loved only death, loved and lived in a deliberate and almost perverted anticipation of death as a lover loves and deliberately refrains from the waiting willing friendly tender incredible body of his beloved, until he can no longer bear not the refraining but the restraint and so flings, hurls himself, relinquishing, drowning.”_

William Faulkner

* * *

The treacle tart tasted like… not treacle tart. Not dust, nor ashes, nor cardboard. Not even like those cold meals that Aunt Petunia put through his catflap. 

It wasn’t Kreacher’s cooking, he knew it wasn’t—Kreacher made him treacle tart almost a year ago when he, Hermione, and Ron had to hide out here, and back then, it tasted fantastic. And now it doesn’t. He knew Kreacher was not trying to poison him. Perhaps two years ago he absolutely would have, vicious old house-elf that he was. That wasn’t his fault anyway. And they were past that. Kreacher tried so hard, and Harry appreciated it and made sure to show it. But his treacle tart is just awful nowadays. And Harry couldn’t help but think it was Kreacher’s fault, even though his cooking had been consistently good. He knew it was not his fault and Harry blamed him anyway. And thinking just that after another bite made it taste worse. 

But, Harry was glad Kreacher was around all the same.

 _God. Those journalists are so fucking loud, wanting to get pictures of me and anyone who situates themselves at the front door. There’s so many of them. God, how I want them to stop, it just won’t stop and there is nothing i can do or say that will satisfy them and i really just want this to end ron and hermione would keep me distracted i really miss them i miss everyone and theresnothingicando_ —

Having had enough of watching the very people that were determined to make Harry’s life more miserable than it already was, he set aside the half-eaten treacle tart by the windowsill and left the bedroom, but not before grabbing the Book off of his unmade bed—a book that had fast become the closest thing he had to a friend.

_But a book can’t be a friend! What are you, Hermione?_

Harry dragged himself down the stairs, holding onto the Book for dear life.

_It’s been a week now. I think._

Harry threw himself onto the drawing room couch, his head on the armrest. He stared blankly at the ceiling. The large book hung loosely in his hand.

The black cover was faded, its pages yellowed with age. It was written almost completely in Latin and the oldest English Harry has ever had the displeasure to read. The ancient scrawl on the top of the front cover read, ‘ _Wiccecræft_ _of Dêað−scûa’_. Harry couldn’t be bothered to figure out what the second-half meant. The center was inscribed with faded gold symbols that looked like… nothing he had ever read.

 _Hermione would know something about it,_ he thought sullenly. _It really is just my luck that I found it the day after. Or was it yesterday?_

He dropped the Book onto the floor and rolled on to his side, facing the unlit fireplace. 

_At least the Latin in the Book is somewhat familiar. Six years at Hogwarts weren’t a complete wash. I should celebrate_. 

Celebrating was a better reason than depression for Firewhiskey, so Harry sat up to call Kreacher. He set the Book on the end table, right on top of the calendar set to May _(God, Saturday? The ninth already?)_ and rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses. 

A glass of pumpkin juice popped into existence to the left of the Book.

_Taking care of me whether I want him to or not._

Harry took a few sips, feeling an empty pit in his stomach as Harry looked past the Book, the edge of it seeming to underline the circled date: the sixth of May. Small, uniform letters read _‘Leaving for Australia!’,_ written in black ink. A crude drawing of the continent was written in the center beneath the words. 

_‘Your finest work yet, Ron,’_ Harry remembered remarking. Ron made a rude gesture in return, his grin turning into a grimace as he got lectured by his mum, who happened to be right behind him. It figured that grief would never stop Molly Weasley.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle, draining the rest of his pumpkin juice and set the empty glass aside. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, feeling the humour of the moment drain away until there was… not much. 

_People have lost loved ones, yet they move on. If that’s the case… who_ does _get stopped by grief? It was hardly me_ — _I did what I had to do._

The spell that ended Tom Riddle was what he, Lord Voldemort, never wanted to be: perfectly unremarkable. 

No Fiendfyre and brimstone, no earth-shattering duel. No clever parrying of obscure curses. No skill at all really. To think that he could have had at least two hundred more years to live had he not decided to use horcruxes gave Harry great pause. His reign of terror, ended by a Disarming charm.

And people still celebrated, wept, coming to Harry as if he were their god made flesh.

And their undivided, never-ending attention sickened him, exhausted him like nothing before. 

Harry had never been so grateful to have friends, even if he had to see Dumbledore for much-needed closure before finally succumbing to the sweet oblivion of sleep. 

Sleep couldn’t come fast enough. But the nightmares certainly did. The few hours of uneasy rest he got was never enough.

_It’s been a week now._

Harry took the Book, setting it on his lap as he mindlessly, slowly, flipped through its creased, ancient pages, fingers sometimes lingering on flawlessly-drawn diagrams and beautiful lettering.

_(...aut neca aut necare...memento vivere...vive memor leti...)_

_The letters are nice. Hermione would probably agree. Ron would just think I was trying to take the mickey out of him. ‘The letters are nice? Mate. They are just letters,’ he’d probably say._

_Maybe I’m losing my mind._

_(...fui quod es, eris quod sum...)_

_You have,_ a part of me thought. _Utterly lost the plot, you have._

He turned another page.

Hermione left him the calendar on an early Sunday afternoon after returning from the nearest market _(I’m not going to send Kreacher to market, Harry,’_ she said with an air of finality Harry did not wish to defy), settling in at Grimmauld Place after having had it checked out by the Weasleys when they accompanied them that morning. Thankfully, they were perfectly able to avoid the journalists, Apparating as close to the front door as possible and entering quickly before any nutter got it in their head to barge in. Harry was so glad to see the closest thing he had ever had to a family.

 _They wanted any excuse to leave Hogwarts,_ he thought, _if only to delay Fred’s burial (don’t). If not that_ _(definitely not), to escape the stench of battle and death._

_(...Mors, suscipe me!… mors mihi lucrum...)_

After lunch, there were embraces and tears, especially from Mrs Weasley, Ginny, Hermione and Fleur. Unable to resist, eyes glazed like an idiot, Ron hugged Fleur back—hard.

_(...manibus date lilia plenis… dictum… ‘sumus Helleborus et Hyacinthus! Clamamus ad te, Mors. Audi nos, et protegi nos!’ ...dictu incantamentum...)_

Harry looked at Ginny then, only to feel embarrassed, remembering her kissing him in her room just last year. She pecked him on the cheek, smiling sadly. She turned to leave, the sun from the open entry-way giving her flowing red hair and pale complexion a heavenly glow he could not help but stare at. And she said, whispering in his ear: _‘I’m in no hurry.’_

And just as soon as she faced him, Ginny softly said, _‘See you in a few, Harry.’_

The door closed behind her. 

Ron and Hermione, tired from the adrenaline rush from the heist at Gringotts up to Voldemort’s demise and the excited masses, went straight upstairs to sleep. 

Harry did not follow.

And as much as he wanted to see Ginny again at The Burrow that day, he didn’t follow Ron and Hermione as they went off to visit that evening either. Their visit ended up being a stay.

And with that, Harry was mercifully—yet dreadfully—alone.

On Wednesday, Hermione came to visit before her departure. _‘Ron’s at The Burrow packing up for the trip,’_ she said apologetically after a tight hug. _‘I’m so sorry, Harry, we’ve just been so unexpectedly busy!’_

They sat on the drawing room couch, drinking tea, chatting about how Bill, Charlie, and Percy were doing, the latest political changes and, like giddy school-mates, shared things heard from the grapevine.

It felt surprisingly good to talk about other people like that. Harry was sure Hermione felt it, too. He could almost understand the whispers behind his back that followed him at Hogwarts and beyond; it was much too fun, and forgetting about personal troubles was a feeling Harry welcomed with great relish. 

_‘To gossip,’_ Hermione said wryly. 

Harry raised his cup in agreement, feeling lighter than he felt in a year at the rise of laughter. 

Hermione smiled at him ruefully after finishing up her tea, saying she was headed off to Australia to get her parents back—and that she might decide to stay there for a well-deserved holiday went unsaid. 

Harry gave her a hug and told her she was always welcome at Grimmauld Place. 

Again, Hermione gave him that smile, as if she was too polite to say ‘no’—or maybe it hurt to. She hugged him again, tightly. It would have been awkward if it wasn’t for the fact that they camped together and had gone on a mad adventure for their lives, not to mention having been best friends for seven years. Harry understood her lack of an answer, but didn’t know how to express it without sounding like a conceited prat. 

Harry sheepishly grinned at her, happy just to have her around. Hermione shook her head, dense brown curls swaying like a willow tree. He guessed she was trying to express some sort of fondness she felt for giving her an out—or maybe she felt relief. 

But suddenly, Hermione looked near tears. Lips pressed together, she let out a strangled, pitiful sob Harry couldn’t think of how to remedy. Letting go of her shoulders, he looked away, fidgeting with the sleeves of his robe. He was no stranger to hearing her cry, but god, he could not look at her. He hugged her tightly as she cried, his hair hanging loosely in front of his face in strands.

She offered to cut it during the visit, but Harry had a feeling it was going to grow back to the same length in no time at all, so he kindly refused. Later that night, he tried cutting it back to the length it was before going on the run. He then took a bath and went to bed. 

Harry was right. Next morning, all of the hair grew right back to medium-length. It still surprised him. Now instead of his hair looking like Aunt Petunia’s old kitchen broom, it made him look like the shabbiest of scarecrows. Like some delinquent, just like her neighbors thought ( _Well, you_ are _, Undesirable Number One. Who breaks into a bank?_ his mind supplied). He imagined Aunt Petunia would have agreed at the comparison, making sure to add _freakish_ and _abnormal_ for good measure. 

Kreacher commented that the hair was _becoming_ , whatever that meant. 

Hermione was kind enough to shut the door behind her as she left Grimmauld Place. After all, it wasn’t really good-bye. He’d be seeing her whenever she got back. 

_‘Ron coming along?’_ Harry had asked.

 _‘For emotional support,’_ she said. 

_‘Sure,’_ he laughed. 

He was— _is_ —happy for them. Really, he is. 

_So why do I feel so alone? So numb?_

Then Harry remembered his days at Dobby’s grave, the constant pain of the scar paling in comparison to his grief. He remembered Hedwig. Not even the world’s best Legilimens and the tempest of his fury could bring him any lower—he was protected, Occluded, by the desolating shadow of grief. And he remembered Moody and Lupin and Tonks and Fred, hell, even Lavender’s bloody corpse flitted through his mind ( _Don’t forget Creevey,_ his mind said, giving him a horrible image of a young Collin Creevey lying dead), and god he had a feeling he was missing somebody else, but his head was so full of fog that he couldn’t hear himself think half the time. 

He groaned, closing his eyes as he put his hands to his temples.

“Master is woolgathering.”

Harry looked up at the croaking voice, seeing an unclear short blob of a bulbous nose and long ears. 

“Not now, Kreacher, ‘m not in the mood,” he said, subconsciously rubbing his face with the sleeve of his new robes. 

_At least it’s not the black blazer from the wedding. Mrs. Weasley would fuss about getting my dress robes all dirty. Would probably spare me and go out herself to get me casual new robes to wear, grieving or not. God,_ Harry sighed, _I miss her already. Glad I let Hermione drag me to Madame Malkin’s for casual robes (Monday, was it? We got green robes. Madam Malkin said, “They match your eyes.” Hermione wholeheartedly agreed.)_

The attention had grown beyond Harry, exceeding its welcome _(not like it ever was welcome anyway,_ he thought with a grimace). The fawning, the people falling all over themselves to try to greet him on the way to the robe shop… 

It was embarrassing. Never again. 

But Hermione was there, heading them off and trying to act as if Harry were just… Harry. That nothing had changed. Like he’d always been Harry—just Harry. To Hermione, The Boy Who Lived was as separate an entity from him as a thestral was to a dementor. 

That’s not quite right either. 

She knew when the myth stopped, knew his responsibilities. What would I do without her? 

He pushed his glasses up to rub his eyes and realized he’d been crying. 

Harry quickly wiped his face, feeling angry with himself for crying on a god-knows-how-old book. The pages in front of him began flipping themselves dry. Of course. But was that a whisper he heard?

He put his ear to the Book, listening for that sound. _A light whistle of wind, maybe, but not a—_

“Is Master alright?” asked Kreacher, concerned. “Kreacher can bring a Calming Draught to set Master’s mind at ease, but Kreacher cannot help if Master does not—”

“Kreacher, _please_ be quiet,” he said impatiently.

Kreacher obeyed, but not before walking closer, looking at him like he was—

“That’s it!” he yelled in excitement upon hearing the sound again. “I heard it!”

“Master hears things Kreacher cannot.”

“Whatever, Kreacher, just— Listen, be quiet and put your ear next to the Book.” Kreacher did so. “Alright, now just listen.” Silence. “Do you hear it now?”

A moment passed. Minutes went by. Then, Kreacher lifted his head up from the Book, looked at Harry, and… 

…slowly shook his head. He croaked the last thing Harry wanted to hear: 

“No, Master. Kreacher hears nothing.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointed.

Harry was silent for a while.

“If Kreacher may make a suggestion, Master?”

Harry nodded wearily.

“Master should check himself in at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies. It does not please Kreacher to see Master lying around the house, perusing nasty book”—Kreacher hissed these two words with great dislike—“and not getting out of the house more.” Harry scowled, feeling his hands clutch at the edges of the Book on his lap—he felt it shivering beneath his fingers—but Kreacher went on, not the slightest bit intimidated. “Master missed funerals this week.”

Harry gripped the Book more tightly in defence. “They don’t need the press hounding them.”

Harry is certain he hears the whispers now, but Kreacher already wants him committed. 

Kreacher nodded in understanding. “Of course, Master. But Kreacher thinks that Master’s friends could have arranged it so Master could attend without attracting unnecessary attention.”

“They don’t need to make the effort for me,” said Harry. “I’ve done enough to them.”

Kreacher looked graver than Harry had ever seen him. “Master knows the Dark Lord is responsible for—”

“Yes,” he interrupted, “I know already, I know!” 

_(vivere disce, cogita mori)_

Old house-elf that he was, Kreacher couldn’t help but flinch at Harry’s raised voice. _He never flinches._ Harry felt guilt gnawing at him. 

_‘Just let him go, Harry,’_ Hermione said at their last visit. _‘It’s not necessary to have him around, and well, if he goes to Hogwarts to continue to work after being freed, it’ll be his decision, not yours. Won’t it?’_

He responded by reminding her of Winky the house-elf’s raging alcoholism, how old and frail Kreacher was, until finally, she sighed in defeat. _‘Fine, Harry. I’m not okay with it, but as long as you’re kind to him…”_

Harry assured her that he was, and really, did she honestly think so little of him?

She asked him what Harry needed to keep him around for.

 _‘To keep him safe,’_ Harry said.

But that wasn’t true. He needed the closest thing to companionship he would get. Harry was waiting to join the Aurors _(‘As soon as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement makes the necessary adjustments,’_ Kingsley Shacklebolt, new Minister for Magic, said last Saturday night as they helped the wounded and repaired parts of the castle), to live a life where danger still lurked around every corner, waiting for the day he got ambushed by a Voldemort supporter, a loose Death Eater, or someone who faulted him for a loved one’s death. Prophecy fulfilled, Harry was waiting to live a purposeless, dangerous existence with no end in sight. 

_(vivere disce, cogita mori)_

He longed for a purpose unknown, the familiar adrenaline rush not coming fast enough as he sat and stared at Kreacher’s judging eyes. 

He could not wait.

And god, with that cursed wish, that yearning, that’s where it all went wrong.

And as Kreacher looked on—his curiosity and fear, palpable—as the black words appeared on one of the blank pages facing him: 

**volo ire ubi necessarius sum**

Harry felt a new life beginning within him as he desperately, breathlessly spoke the words into the stillness. The Book began to glow, and his body felt like it was being pulled inside out as it lead him into the unforeseen, granting his wish, drawn to his despair and his morbid mastery _(Dictu verba. Magister Mortis...)_ with its unknown consequences, like a dementor to a Saviour.

 _“Amen,”_ Harry whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Depression and grief.
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  Wiccecræft of Dêað−scûa (Anglo-Saxon) = witchcraft of the spirit of death  
> aut neca aut necare = either kill or be killed  
> memento vivere = remember you have to live  
> vive memor leti = live remembering death  
> fui quod es, eris quod sum =I once was what you are, you will be what I am  
> Mors, suscipe me! = Death, take me!  
> mors mihi lucrum = Death to me is reward  
> manibus date lilia plenis = give lilies with full hands  
> vivere disce, cogita mori = learn to live; remember death  
> volo ire ubi necessarius sum = I wish to go where I am needed  
> Dictu verba. Magister Mortis… = Say the words. Master of Death...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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